immortal person

He saw a stack of drawing papers.Charcoal is used to outline the characters, and red chalk is used to express the muscle tone. Several prophets in the Old Testament, such as Jeremiah, Ezekiel and Jonah, are scribbled from different angles.It was so rough and out of place in this Lydian treasury-like room, in this wooden box in which Lorenzo's treasures had been kept from childhood to adulthood.

The author's name is scrawled below these drawings: Giovanni di Buonarroti.

He made countless drafts every year, Giovanni thought for a moment, and finally remembered their origin.He has some artist friends all over the mainland, and often exchanges ideas with each other through messengers.If memory serves me correctly, the manuscripts had originally been sent to Cologne, where the Nuremberg painter Albrecht had given him copies of several of his engravings, so Giovanni sent these manuscripts drafted for the Pope's tomb to He sent it as a gift in return.

But how did they cross the Rhine and come to Lorenzo?

"Your Highness: I cannot express how honored I am to have received your letter... Thank you for your gift. I have sent to the courier the painting of Mr. Buonarroti that you mentioned... I hope you will be satisfied." There is a piece of letter paper in the drawing, signed by Albrecht.

Naturally, he remembered Mrs. Clarice's words not long ago-"We all like your paintings."-Is this what he meant?

Below the drawing paper are some neatly packed letters.He hesitantly took out one, and a piece of yellowed letter paper slowly fell from it, with "To His Highness Lorenzo de' Medici" written on the first line.At first, he thought it was Lorenzo's personal letter, but his eyes passed by in a hurry, but he accidentally recognized his name——

"About Mr. Buonarroti you asked about..."

His heart lifted slightly.

Even though he knew it was impolite, he couldn't help but unfold the letter - "As you know, he came here to buy ultramarine. He only stayed with us for two days, and he looked dusty, coming and going in a hurry , pardon the limited information I can give you...he bought three different grades of ultramarine blue for a total of fifteen ounces and placed an order with us for more. Yes, he spent a lot of money, it doesn't look like Financial troubles, we presume he's got an advance from the treasurer of the Curia. He didn't tell us where he's going next, but I guess he's going to Verona, since he mentioned the need to find a red marble. Enclosed is his bill, which I hope will be of some assistance to you."

A thin piece of paper slipped from his fingers, on which were written the names and total prices of the three ultramarines.Sure enough, it was his bill.

The letter was signed "Fr. Angelico", head of the monastery of San Giusto.This Jesuit monastery in Tuscany is not known for its scriptorium and book collection, but it is specialized in making paints and stained glass.He made a brief trip there two years ago to buy paint for the Madonna's robe—the closest he's been to Florence in five years.It turned out that not long after that, Lorenzo had written to Angelico asking about him...?

A guess slowly floated up in his mind, but it was unbelievable.He picked up another letter and, not surprisingly, found his name again.The letter was from Umberco Granacci, Secretary of the Curia, who oversaw the construction of the Pope's tomb during the busy period of Sixtus IV's government.There are a total of five letters he wrote to Lorenzo, dated two years ago, one year ago, and six months ago.

The original letter - "As to your question, my answer is: Yes, Mr. Buonarroti has come to Rome by order of the Holy See. He is an outstanding young man, and many older than him Sculptors have admired him...if you wish to call him up, it may be at least a year away.";

A year ago - "He's done an excellent job, perhaps the best alive...nobody can deny that. I can understand why you care so much about him. Thank you for the gift, you're so kind, it's just It's a small thing."

Lorenzo had sent presents to the secretary, perhaps with some money.Giovanni was never a sociable person, and Riario always took good care of him.He could not tell how much of this favor was due to Lorenzo's generosity.

His hands trembled slightly.The indescribable shock went all the way up the spine.He imagined the mood in which Lorenzo asked others for his news, read the letters, and put them away one by one.While he was trying his best to avoid the news of the Medici family, Lorenzo was still watching him, and did not look back at him——

His gaze came to the most recent letter.That was nearly a year ago, and at the end of the letter, Riario informed Lorenzo: "...Mr. It has been reported from others that he will return to Florence shortly."

This is not true.After work on the Pope's tomb, he traveled to Urbia, where he visited a young upstart painter; then to Bologna, where he studied clay sculpture until news of Bertoldo's death came.And Lorenzo -- did he go through that year with expectations and disappointments?

There was a soft sound of the door opening behind him, and Giovanni turned his head sharply.Lorenzo stood by the door, his hands still holding on to the door.He seemed to be about to say something, but immediately stopped moving when he saw the open box and the letter in his hand.He stood stiffly on the spot—this was the first time Giovanni saw an emotion close to helplessness in him—seemed to be embarrassed for a moment, and then he gave a low cough and turned around.Giovanni immediately got up and caught him by the wrist.

"I'm sorry." Lorenzo had no choice but to raise his hands in surrender. He coughed lightly again, "Please forgive me."

He waited for a while, but did not get an answer.Giovanni just squeezed his wrist so hard it was almost painful.His voice dropped: "I...does this disturb you?"

He raised his eyes.Unexpectedly, Giovanni was staring down at him with an unconcealable gloomy fire in his eyes.

"I'm so happy," said Giovanni after a long time.

He had learned the skills of poetry, but at this moment he couldn't express it in more polished language.Surprise, relief and passion/passion evolved into desire/desire without accident. In the afternoon, behind the thick velvet curtains, the bedroom was half-lit and half-dark, filled with the smell of incense and passion/desire.Giovanni kissed Lorenzo down the spine and down his lower back.Lorenzo lay prone on the pillow, feeling a sudden burst of moistness from the tailbone.Looking back, I saw Giovanni holding a quill pen, writing something stroke by stroke on his body, with an expression that was almost religious.Indigo ink trickled down his skin like Oriental blue and white porcelain.

Lorenzo closed his eyes and felt for a while, realizing that it was Giovanni's name.He laughed: "Are you signing?"

He remembered another anecdote that made Giovanni famous-at that time, he had not yet become famous all over Italy. Some people mistakenly thought that the statue belonging to him in St. Peter's Basilica was someone else's work, so Giovanni once took advantage of the guards. I didn't notice that my name was engraved on the front of the Virgin Mary. —Before him, no artist dared to sign an icon.

Giovanni made the last stroke slowly.He looked up at Lorenzo: "Are you angry?"

"Not at all," Lorenzo said, sitting up, stroking the corners of his eyes. "You can even pierce there and inject color in there—I've heard some dyers do that for people. I don't mind."

His expression and tone were so natural, as if he had never thought about how such a sentence would breed the possessive desire in his lover's heart.Giovanni looked at him and shook his head. "I won't let you bleed," he said, leaning over to kiss Lorenzo. "I already know."

"what?"

"you are mine."

Lorenzo looked up at him, and a gentle kiss quickly fell on his eyes, forcing him to close his eyes, as if the young man was ashamed to let him see the too obvious emotion in his eyes that was hard to conceal.Giovanni's deep voice came from above: "Since when?"

Finally back here again.Lorenzo smiled and no longer avoided the subject. "Four years ago, after Kate passed away." He thought for a while, "In the first year, I didn't dare to ask about you. But, I... have always been a weak-willed person."

"It's not easy to avoid your news."

he said lightly.In fact—as the glutton shuns feasts, the chronically ill shuns the antidote—every day is an austerity.In the second year after Giovanni left Florence, the "Sculptor Buonarroti" began to be frequently talked about at the banquets of the nobles.People discussed his works, and planned to ask him to make a coat of arms and pour an equestrian statue for himself. "I heard that he asks for a lot of money", they mentioned his name beside him, not knowing that it was like throwing a stone on the lake of his heart, "but who doesn't want to erect a monument for themselves?" He tried to refuse, very hard.Knowing that Giovanni was still at the court of Ferrara, he postponed his visit to the Duke of Este until Giovanni had been summoned by the Pope to the Vatican.

"I didn't dare to go to Ferrara until a month after you left. You made them an Icarus, didn't you? They invited me to look at it, and arranged for a poet to read a hymn to it, as if To make me envious." He stroked Giovanni's cheek, "and I did feel jealous. I thought... I wanted to buy it back. I don't want anyone else to have your work at all."

Jealousy is undoubtedly another crime.He looked at the crucifix, still blindfolded.Christ's head crowned with thorns is tilted to one side, his knees are slightly bent, and blood is streaming from his chest.Even now, when he confronts his beliefs in the depths of his heart, guilt and pain are still with him; the imprint from his childhood has never faded, he has only learned to escape, just as he knew Giovanni.

Never overstep, never disturb, at the very beginning of the ban, he once said to himself.And once the inquiry is started, stopping and restraint are as difficult as those who use belladonna and opium ointments are always difficult to quit.When his courier is no longer limited to delivering secrets and conspiracies, waiting for the courier to arrive has become a pleasant and tormenting thing.

"I wait for news from you like a child waits for a candy bar," he said.

The end of the words is drowned in kisses.He heard Giovanni sigh softly, like a prayer whose wish has been granted at last, marveling at the fulfillment of his wish, such a grace that he could not imagine himself possessing.He took Lorenzo's hand and kissed the back, palm and wrist.During the intermittent kisses and caresses, Lorenzo suddenly glanced down and whispered to him with a smile: "...are you Priapus?"

It is never difficult to rekindle lust/desire.At dusk at sunset, the light penetrates through the curtains, and slender rays of light fall down.After the end, he stroked Lorenzo's eyebrows, inch by inch, as if he was reciting in silence carefully, and as if confirming his territory.Lorenzo let out a "huh" without opening his eyes, "What are you thinking?"

"I want to make a statue of you."

Lorenzo closed his eyes and held his wrist: "Tomorrow?"

"No," said Giovanni, earnestly, "I am not good enough."

As if he had heard similar words many years ago, Lorenzo smiled.

"how much longer?"

"Not good."

"Ten years?—decades?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe I'm getting old."

"I'll remember you the way you are now."

"Perhaps you have lost track of it."

Giovanni whispered, "Never."

Lorenzo opened his eyes and touched his face with a smile.

The author has something to say:

Although the writing has been bad recently...but I still ask for comments (if there are still readers) orz